tales for dreamers: a new place, a new life

I found him, at last. The werewolf from the department store!

I’d heard the rumours — how a kind and rich benefactor had come along and rescued the creature from the department store. 

The werewolf graces the porch of a house that looks lovely and well-kept from the outside. 

He smiles at me as I approach him. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and it makes me wish I had been the one to rescue him. I wish I had had the means to do so.

“I remember you—”  I say, at the same time he says, “I remember you—”

We smile. We already know what the other is going through, so we let the words rest for a bit. 

He’s not shackled to anything, I’m amazed to see. He stands here of his own accord. Probably has been since the day they brought him home.

The owners have even put a mat for him to stand on, perhaps to keep his feet from turning too cold in the dead of the night.

“They’re kind to me, you know?” he says at last, not quite meeting my eyes.

“I understand,” I say. What I really wish to ask, but don’t, is this — Is that a good enough reason to stay confined?

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “But isn’t that what we’re all looking for? Love? Kindness? Empathy? Isn’t that what we all desire? To be seen? To be heard? To be validated?”

“I suppose so,” I reply. And I mean it. Even though I know that to seek all of these things from others is a trap in itself. 

I wish the werewolf could understand he need not remain shackled for the sake of love.

But then, who am I wish for others what they may not want for themselves?

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you then.”

“Maybe,” the werewolf replies.

The next morning, he’s gone.

The porch is empty, save for those yard waste bags.

Now that Halloween is over, perhaps he’s been dismantled and put away in the basement. To be stored in obscurity for an entire year. 

My heart sinks at the thought. I turn away in despair, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

But then I catch a glimpse of gigantic paw prints on the dewy grass, leading away from the house. They disappear where the front lawn ends and the concrete sidewalk begins. My spirits soar. 

I look up and down the quiet suburban street. Deserted, as always. The ones rich enough to live here spend all their time either at work or on vacation.

And then I hear it. A very distant howl. Far enough to sound more like a coo, less like a wail. 

I doubt anyone else noticed it. It was a weekday morning, after all. 

Farewell, my friend. I wish you a life of adventure. Maybe you’ll find others like you and know, in your moments of doubt and dark despair, that you made the right choice.

Last week's image info: The sculptured hands in last week's tale, 'need a hand?', adorned a wall behind the desk at the entrance to a lovely breakfast area in InterContinental Montreal!